


safe like spring time

by liquidsky



Category: SKAM (France)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, First Time, M/M, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:28:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26364202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liquidsky/pseuds/liquidsky
Summary: Lucas has the flat to himself.
Relationships: Eliott Demaury/Lucas Lallemant
Comments: 4
Kudos: 95





	safe like spring time

“Okay,” says Lucas, ceremoniously placing the contents of his bag onto the bed. 

He tells Alexa to play any song at all, and sways his hips to the growing beat in a vague, non-committal rhythm as he eyes the hygienic douche staring back at him. It’s a long, awkward pause before he’s pulling up Google and frowning at the screen, wiping the sweat on his forehead with the back of his arm; Lucas grabs it and the lube and moves to the bathroom in a ostensive attempt at determination, neither locking nor closing the door, the leftover echo of the music still bouncing off the walls as he washes his hands with too much soap and stares at his own face.

Lucas has the flat to himself. 

It’s not really any kind of frequent occurance that the stars will align for Lisa and Mika to fuck off someplace else for the weekend, but they have, so Lucas stands under the cold-wash of the bathroom lights alone and gives himself a lame thumbs up, thinking of Eliott as he strips off his shirt and jeans. 

He feels slightly ridiculous stepping into the bathtub, bracing himself on the wall; he’s kind of wishing Eliott was there, though maybe it’s appropriate that he’s not. Lucas’ focused on him enough as it is, when he’s not even there, busy dining somewhere fancy with his grandparents. It wasn’t for sure that he’d be alone, although obviously he wouldn’t be doing this if he weren’t. The guys invited Lucas, too—are going to the club or to a party or to wherever else. Because Lucas has become an expert on ditching by now, he’s there pushing his forehead against the freezing bathroom tiles instead, reaching back and sighing softly. 

The tutorial is extensively thorough, and Lucas follows it step by step with maybe too much focus; Eliott’s still there in the back of his mind, still, with Lucas wondering what he's doing and eating and thinking. If he's thinking about Lucas, too. It seems lately he doesn’t do much besides wonder about Eliott—there’s always an undercurrent of want sticking to him, nowadays, fingers straining to touch. Mulling over it keeps Lucas occupied, and soon enough he’s rinsing the bathtub and drying himself off. Stumbling naked back into his bedroom, dropping his pile of clothes to the floor and pushing them to the corner with a foot. 

He shuts the curtains, adjusts the lighting so he’s surrounded only by the faint, warm glow of the orange lampshade he’s stolen from Mika. The music's fine—he hasn't worked on his own sex playlist yet, not like Eliott has, and he's not about to do it now. 

Lucas flops back down onto the bed and squirms under the covers, then out again, undecided. He stares at the ceiling for a bit, feeling himself blush—not pussying out of it now, Lucas settles for. 

He fumbles for the lube, fumbling then with the lid until he’s accidentally squirting too much of it onto his hands. It slides down his wrist in a cold trail of sensation, and it’s still cold when Lucas wraps a fist around his cock, hissing through his teeth, stroking upwards once before closing it tighter and shoving his hips up into the pressure of his own hand. 

Okay, this is familiar. Better, a little. Slicker, and softer too. He's very well acquainted with the parts of the equation so far, jerking himself off just the way he likes it. Lube's still dripping down his wrist, making the slide unbelievably easy. Not that it wasn’t before; Lucas has always gotten wet. He even Google’d it, once, back when everyone his age was entirely convinced they were an anomaly. 

Lucas isn’t—Google told him so—, but he’d never really needed lube, so he’s surprised by how much quicker he gets wet like this, pre-come bubbling out the tip of his dick when he squeezes right under the head. His back’s arching off the bed already, thighs flexing, the air around him growing thicker. 

Lucas eases off a bit.

Runs his slippery palms across the coarse hair on his navel, up his pecs to rub over his nipples, choking on a sigh. He's always liked that. It used to stress him out, just that it made him shiver and groan, how it made him want to come so bad. He’s not as ticked by it anymore; Eliott enjoys it, fastening his lips around them and sucking, and Lucas’ been hard-pressed to find any fault in whatever they’ve done together. Besides, there’s an entire universe of things he wants more than he probably should, and this has always been just one of those. 

His hands stay there, lingering for a beat, for just as long as it takes Lucas to realize that he _wants_ —fingers over his lips, spreading slick on saliva before Lucas sucks them into his mouth, curls his tongue around them. Easy to pretend it’s something other than it is, but even as he’s aware it’s him it still feels good. 

Almost too good—he’s so _warm_ , all over, and there’s a chance he’s being too loud. He’s all alone, though, and anyway the music might be drowning away his stuttering breaths. Lucas’ hands trail back down, tugging on his dick, Travel even further. He’s used to it. It's shocking he can still grow surprised at the pulling in his gut, at just how out of his mind he feels already.

Blood rushing to his ears, Lucas spreads his legs, folds his knees. He’s not used to _this_ —he’s watched the porn, different variations of the same positions over and over again, the grunting and the moaning. So many times before, with hands tingling stuck to his sides, refusing to touch himself. Everything else was fair game in the privacy of his own room and mind, but not this. It had always seemed too obvious, a step too far in the wrong direction. 

Not anymore, though.

Lucas squirts more lube onto his palm before rubbing two of his fingers over the ring of muscle with a loud, stuttering breath he feels immediately embarrassed about. He looks up at the ceiling again, finds nothing to distract him. 

It burns slightly, the first finger. Pushing insistent past any resistance until it’s all in, and he’s gasping, with his head tipped back against the pillow, eyes falling shut. 

“Holy _shit_ ,” spits Lucas, pulling his finger out only to dip back in with two, completely devoid of any poise or patience at all, shoving them in with an abrupt, careless effort that leaves light dancing behind his eyelids. 

It hurts in the best possible way—makes him do it again, one more. Three of them dragging in and out too hard, his back arching so taut he hears the absent crack of it. Painfully clear that he’s louder than the music, now, with his wrist straining from the awkward angle he’s fucking himself in, voice sounding hoarse in a constant litany of “fuck, fuck, _fuck,_ ” that he can’t quite hold in. 

It’s a revelation, in how it is ridiculous and overwhelming and utterly fucking expected, that he’d feel like this, like he’s melting out of his skin. Lucas doesn’t dare touch his own cock—the pressure of three of his fingers inside him already feels like it’d be enough, and he doesn’t want it to end. He’s got about centuries of catching up to do, as he’d never really stopped wanting it, thinking about it. He looked at Eliott’s hands, and thought about it. The stretch of his lips. His thighs. Lucas is always thinking about it; he’s considering forcing in a fourth finger, wants it to hurt, almost. Except he’d need more lube for that, probably, and he doesn’t—well. Or maybe he does, fumbling around the mattress and sheets for the tube he doesn’t find. 

Derailing the procedures is probably fine, so Lucas opens his eyes to look for it – and startles enough he hits his head on the headboard.

“ _Jesus.”_ he hisses. 

Standing by the foot of the bed, Eliott looks sort of amused. 

Lucas stares at him, “Are you—how long have you been here?”  


“Not long,” Eliott answers, which might be true just as well as it might not be. Lucas glances down at the hard line of Eliott’s erection, apparent through his jeans, “Sorry, I used the key. I was done earlier than I thought. Heard the music and thought maybe you were just—”

“—Yeah,” Lucas interrupts. Eliott’s staring back at him, and Lucas can’t know what he looks like, right now. There’s a hot bundle of embarrassment growing where before there was only desire, and Lucas is well on its way to wishing for a sudden, swift death already. He wipes his hands on the sheets with a grimace before looking back at Eliott. “Listen—”

“You should keep going,” Eliott cuts in, “You looked like you were having a good time.”

Lucas says, “Eliott,” because it’s about the only thing that comes to mind. Eliott sits down on the end of the bed, then, head slightly cocked to peer at Lucas with a small smile. “Okay,” Lucas tells him, moving back to his previous position before remembering he only really moved so he could find the lube. 

He sits up again, and Eliott hands him the tube before he can look around. 

“Thanks,” Lucas answers, settling back down. He’s watching Eliott’s face closely as he coats four of his fingers; he lowers them slowly, and Eliott watches him back, eyes so hot on Lucas he feels them like the touch of his hand. 

Lucas spreads his legs again, more so this time, and four fingers is a _lot_. Eliott twitches when Lucas groans, leaning forward as though pulled by gravity itself, and Lucas can’t seem to stop looking at him. They must look insane, Lucas thinks, Eliott with his face so reverent, Lucas panting like he’s run a race, the loud music and the louder groaning, the soft squelching sound of his fingers driving deep into his own body. “

Eliott leans minisculely forward again, and Lucas waits for him to say something, anything at all. “Can I touch you?” Eliott asks eventually, and Lucas nods so fast he feels dizzy, but he stops Eliott before his hands reach him. 

“I want—” Lucas says, not knowing how to say it, words a messy tangled jumble in his head, “Eliott, take off your pants.”

His hands are shaking when he stands up to unbuckle his belt, undo the buttons of his pants. Eliott still looks exceptionally devout, convert to the religion of every detail of Lucas his eyes can still reach. Lucas offers him a smile.

He pulls down his underwear and Lucas can’t quite help but stare at him—he’s still got a neat black button-down on, and Lucas feels drunk on amusement, on Eliott looking back at him, on the feeling of fullness he gives up on to gesture for Eliott to sit down against the headboard. 

“Like this?” Eliott asks, one of his legs swinging from the side of the mattress, the other stretched across it. 

Lucas stares at him some more, hands Eliott the lube and watches him get some on his hand before reaching for Lucas. 

“No,” Lucas tells him, faintly amused again by just how monosyllabic they’re being, “It’s for you.”

Eliott takes about three seconds to process Lucas’ directions before he’s closing his slick hand over his own cock, hissing at the feeling. Lucas is half-hypnotized by the look on his face; he covers Eliott’s hand with his own, falling forward to brush a kiss against the side of Eliott’s face. Their legs are tangling together already, skin brushing, so Lucas closes the distance between them, sits down on one of Eliott’s thighs, “Can we?”

Their shared breath is warm and sweet in the space between their lips, and Eliott’s pulling Lucas forward by the hips with one huge hand, his other one lifting the hem of his shirt so it’s not standing in the way. Lucas braces his palms on Eliott’s shoulders, lifting up on his knees and crawling forward until they’re touching nearly everywhere. He reaches back, fingers deftly circling Eliott’s cock; he wants to be careful, but his impulse control’s shot to shit, so he sinks down in one long, burning slide, groaning so loud his throat hurts. He can almost feel it there, too—Eliott’s dick lodged inside him so deep, he grinds forward hoping to feel it protruding on the brush of his navel to Eliott’s. He thinks he does. 

Lucas can’t settle on a rhythm. He closes his eyes, tips his head back, grinding heavy and hard down on Eliott’s dick, and Eliott splays his hands over the dimple of Lucas’ lower back and leans forward to kiss his throat, suck a hickey into the space between his neck and shoulder. It’s weird—feels insane, better than any high he’s ever felt, a deep satisfaction spreading from the inside out. His own dick is drooling messy in the space between them, jerking against Eliott’s abs, and he doesn’t see Eliott look down at it, feels it instead when he touches his fingers to the head. 

Eliott says, “Lean back,” and Lucas does, bracing his hands back on each of Eliott’s ankles; the new angle traps his next breath in his lungs, makes his voice come out in stutters and gasps, Lucas’ entire body tingling and shaking like he’s stuck a finger in a power outlet—”Eliott,” he says, again and again like a one-word prayer until Eliott takes hold of his dick and starts pulling him off. “Please—”

Grip tightens on his cock, thumb squeezing down, and Lucas marvels for an infinite stretch of a second over just how well Eliott knows him already; he’s spurting hot into Eliott’s waiting hand with a sharp groan, feeling his body clench so hard he shakes, then relax. He’s still holding on to Eliott’s ankles, Eliott’s cock still hard inside him, dragging a whine of all things out of Lucas, rubbing inside where he’s now too sensitive. “Eliott—what do you need?”

Eliott’s eyes fall on Lucas’ before he’s shoving Lucas off of him and to the side, guiding his body into the mattress face-down, pulling at his hips and kneeling between Lucas’ knees. He says, “Okay?” and doesn’t quite wait for an answer before he’s pushing inside again, forcing wet inhales out of Lucas; it feels—worse and better, like this, so sensitive he feels like crying, painful in a way that is just salaciously good. Eliott’s panting in his ear, too, loud and ragged, and Lucas presses his face against the pillow to muffle his grunting. When Eliott comes, warm and liquid inside him, Lucas’ closed eyes spring open. 

It follows Eliott out, sliding down his taint and the back of his legs. “Holy shit,” he tells Eliott, who looks about as fucked-out as him; he flops down next to Lucas in a warm heap of skin and sweat. “Okay?” 

“Yeah,” Eliott tells him, turning sideways to look at Lucas. “Okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> couldn't stop thinking about them (and this) for _weeks_ , so i've finally caved. title is from _lucky strike_ by troye sivan!


End file.
